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Poem: Spike Jones’s Orchestra Plays Kyrie Eleison

A voice sings about love the sun is setting the strings are about to swell but no instead, oh my, a child is playing the pots and pans falling down the stairs, which is the sound of the setting sun in the other world it’s our miscarried boy from years ago. I’m so proud of him. Someone forgot to mention that you were supposed to be born before you die, he never knew. Oh my, a friend I haven’t seen in fifteen years, he’s squeezing a giant clownhorn avoiding talking about what turned him off from my company.

Please accept our gunshot kissing sounds and have mercy on our lack of traditional strings. See! Look there! Our cocker spaniel who was lost the year the apple tree died of a fungus, he’s playing a cigarbox ukulele clawhammer style and he’s not bad.…

I gargle my prayers aloud from center stage to the tune of William Tell’s overture.

What I really mean to say is Lord please please stop it’s all I can take

even the anvil player sitting next to the muted trombone is known to have mercy softer than yours.